"Ray: Bruges is a shithole.
Ken: Bruges is not a shithole.
Ray: Bruges is a shithole.
Ken: Ray, we only just got off the fucking train! Could we reserve judgment on Bruges until we've seen the fucking place?"
- In Bruges
Fun fact: In Bruges is one of my favourite movies, ever. I loved having an excuse to watch it so I could write this!
"Coffee?"
John snapped awake, turning to groggily look up.
"No…thanks." He mumbled before he realized that the waiter had not been talking to him, but to another booth further down. John sighed, burrowing into the corner of his booth between the wall and window. He loved corners. It meant your back was guarded and no one could sneak up on you. Of course when you were stuck in one that was another matter.
He was awake now, and that meant no going back to sleep.
He stared out of the window at the dark landscape passing before him, obscured by the light of the dining car he was in. He must have fallen asleep there after dinner, and if the waiter hadn't woken him, he probably would have stayed that way until Klaipeda.
He felt like shit. Like he had slept in a rubbish bin full of liquid putrefaction that clogged his senses and had only woken when it was being compacted in the back of the truck, squeezing his head so tightly it felt like there wasn't even space for his own brain anymore.
Mary had warned him that this would happen. She had warned him about the side effects that would take the piss out of him until his body got it fully out of his system. He was very tempted in fact to run to the lavatory and hurl his dinner up until he felt better, but he didn't want to make a mess for someone else to clean up, much less get out of his warm, cosy seat to toss his stomach up on cold tile.
Mary hadn't been lying when she'd told him his detox would be hell. After pumping him full of electrolytes and mild rehydration fluids, they had sent him on his merry way, except it wasn't so merry at all, it was rather miserable. And he knew he had to suffer through it, because what good would complaining do? No one would care.
And so he burned quietly.
And so he bled quietly.
He didn't know when he was waking or dreaming as the hours passed and the train rocked and his face pressed against the cool glass. Images, silhouettes, passed by, blurred and reflected in the glass. He heard the swishing of clothing, felt the cool air as people passed, heard the floor creak under their steps. A handful of times he heard the distinct flutter of heavy coats and saw blurred swatches of black amidst pale skin.
So he pretended it was Sherlock, pacing about like a mother hen and worrying over his recovery. He chuckled.
He slept.
He dreamed.
He woke.
He began it all again.
John stood on the cobblestone bridge outside his hotel, the fresh wind brushing his face as he stared out over the muted green canal. The day was overcast, slightly cool, but nice.
He liked Bruges. It was free and open and peaceful and quiet. He needed all of those things right now. His head still hurt, but the pain was considerably less. He could feel it bleeding out of him, dripping from his fingertips like hot wax and leaving a calm coolness in its place.
He should call Mary, and let her know he was alright, but that would be silly. She would have access to the hotel records; she'd know he had checked in.
He should call Molly back, but that was just as silly as calling Mary since he had no idea what to say and the kindness of the gesture would be lost in the subsequent awkwardness. He couldn't deal with formalities right now.
He was back in his room.
The vaulted wooden ceiling. The lone spherical shelled light. The plain white walls. The plain, modest bed covered with a soft, welcoming duvet. Modern, but comfortable. It was more accommodating than he had expected.
There was a note on his bed, folded neatly and sealed with a thin blue wax.
Apparently the agency was wasting no time in using his sick leave to their advantage.
It was a church. That surprised him. Usually the agency was as politically correct as possible; they liked to keep their hands as clean as they could. He supposed this person rather deserved what was coming to them, then.
It was large and looming and impressive, just like any other old building, but John appreciated the architecture, dark brick and stones lined with silver and gold. It was small, like nearly every other building in the old parts of Bruges, but it was ominous in its simplicity.
Getting in was no problem. It was nearly empty at this hour anyways, between masses. All he had to do was slip into a side door. The instructions led him to a small, narrow stairwell and he climbed, clutching his bag so it wouldn't rattle.
His head began to hurt again and he felt himself sway on his feet as he reached the landing. He paused a moment, laying a hand on the cold stone of the stairwell, before he quietly opened the door.
He came out at a small balcony, secluded and tiny, which allowed him the utmost privacy. Quietly, he assembled his gun, smoothing the well-oiled parts together as if he were forming them from primordial clay.
The ceiling was vaulted, which was a slight problem, but not an obstacle. It would create an echoing noise that was sure to be heard. And since his position was so isolated, all eyes would turn, after the initial shock of seeing someone's brains on the floor, to where the noise had come from, which would lead them to him. He would have to be prepared to aim, shoot, and run as fast as he could.
As he adjusted his scope, his phone buzzed.
Your target is below, in the fifth pew. Black coat, blue scarf.
John leaned over the banister and counted the pews beneath the rim of his hat.
He aligned his scope.
His hands started to shake.
No…
He lowered the gun.
He ducked back down, out of sight, and stared through the limbs of the banister at that curly dark hair, at that pale face, at those long legs tucked under the pew in front of him, at that man that was currently not giving a care in the world, as if John's life hadn't slipped off the banister and shattered to pieces in front of him.
As if everything was normal.
He had to get out, before he was spotted. He had to get out before he got violently, violently sick.
His head pounded. His throat tightened as he stared at those broken pieces of his life as they lay on the floor at the man's feet, shimmering weakly in the light, the same colour, the same shining cadet grey as his eyes. He felt his lips move in a fervent whisper.
"Sherlock."
I am very, very, very sorry that this is so short! I'm going away for the weekend, and I don't have time to finish, but I wanted to leave you all with something this weekend! Please consider this a part one to the Bruges Arc.